


A Study in Knitting, or Normalcy Torn to Pieces at the Seams.

by Left_Handed_Rick



Series: The Key of 221B [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Asexual Sherlock, Asexual johnlock, BAMF John, BAMF!John, Domestic Violence, Kid John, M/M, Nightmares, Other, POV Sherlock Holmes, PTSD, Platonic Male/Male Relationships, Platonic Romance, Platonic Soulmates, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, drug use references, john is not broken, johns nightmares, mentions of child abuse, suicide ideation, where Sherlock is asexual but John masturbates to the idea of him nonetheless., where john and sherlock somehow make what they have work
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-05
Updated: 2013-07-05
Packaged: 2017-12-17 17:49:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/870262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Left_Handed_Rick/pseuds/Left_Handed_Rick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>John’s madness is rather like the dull, normal thread of his jumper: A slow unraveling by a carefully pulled string. </i>
</p><p>“Accident.” John announces to the living room as he continues to stare at his work. Fragments of his favorite mug, which moments before, had slipped from all too apathetic fingers.</p><p>“Experiment.” Sherlock refutes without so much as a stir from the resonating crash.</p><p>  <i>This is where the string catches, and how the unraveling begins.</i></p><p><strong> See additional tags for warnings. </strong> Part of the<a href="http://archiveofourown.org/series/49871"> Key of 221B </a>series. Prequel of sorts to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/864542"> Fix You. </a></p>
            </blockquote>





	A Study in Knitting, or Normalcy Torn to Pieces at the Seams.

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by the lovely sixdegreesofemotionallydetatched.tumblr.com thank you!

There are subtle secrets living beneath the wilted wallpaper of 221B Baker Street, which neither Sherlock nor John care to speak openly about. 

One of which, is locked behind a cage of rusted floral maze. A small neglected songbird, who often sings of it’s own death; escape through destructive means. Occasionally, one of the two flatmates will hear it’s song of fevered sweetness. 

One day, John comes bursting through the doorway to find Sherlock unloading a round of bullets into its cage.

“What the **hell** are you doing!” 

John's military training takes command. He steps into the heart of the battlefield and swiftly removes his L9A1 Browning from Sherlock’s possession, disarming it. Sherlock smiles to himself, continually pleased and astonished by the ex military doctor. It would appear that John can hear the song as well. 

In those particular moments, notes slip sweetly through the air like tension wound on violin strings. They both recognize its presence, and without another word or second thought, John will abruptly stop whatever it is that he is doing, glance toward Sherlock for a brief moment, then silently and rather carefully walk a parameter check of the flat. Not a syllable is uttered from Sherlock. Instead glaring eyes silently follow the doctor as he checks all the usual places. Tonight is a risk night. 

This is their unspoken ritual. 

Secrets buried beneath the wilted flowers on the walls, a song of madness locked behind the turned key of 221B. 

* * *

Sherlock sits upright on the sofa, allowing his hand to brush across the surface of the tarnished wallpapered walls. Cooking oil, smoke, glue and possible traces of asbestos are catalogued from the resin-like texture that his fingertips remove.

Sherlock hardly ever slept, but if he had, he’d have woken to the song of a particular ominous bird. He glances towards the tuft of sand colored hair that emerges from John's room, kitchen determined. Sherlock takes a deep breath, calloused fingertips of his violin hand finding their way to rest against the chemical burnt tips of his right. He frowns at the sticky remnants of the wallpaper which temporarily adhere his fingers together. Normally, a discovery like this would interest the ever curious mind, but this morning he finds it to be a rather annoying distraction. John has woken up rather quietly this morning. Quite late as well, considering he’s already missed his first shift at Bart’s. He seems to be taking this _unusually_ well for a man who prides himself on loyalty and accountability. Being a creature of extreme british habit, John lethargically sets the kettle on the stove, willing the water to boil. It's not until John forgets his british manners which normally offer Sherlock a morning cuppa as well, but instead watches the water boil a full 20 seconds into the whistle, that Sherlock knows for certain. The deduction filters across his minds eye as he continues to read his flatmate. _Nightmares._

Sherlock has archived John’s nightmares into four categories. Categories one and two, are for lack of better terminology, the most 'normal', nightmares for the invalided soldier, who was raised in a domestically violent household could become. 

Category three results in John experiencing a post-traumatic episode in full, where Sherlock is sometimes required to intervene, though not always. At this stage, John's sense of place, reality, and time, are often blurred. Fortunately for Sherlock, not so fortunately for John, years of trial and error coupled with infantry stress and psychological strength training have allowed the Soldier to compose an array of coping mechanisms from which he is able to draw upon, and for the most part he utilizes it. Sherlock makes his presence available when necessary. 

Sherlock can now confirm that last night's episode, which he had until this morning believed to be a category three, was in fact, the first sign of four. 

* * *

Sherlock had only witnessed nightmares belonging to the fourth category once during their time together. Unlike the others, fours are serial nightmares, displaying patterns similar to their categorical predecessors for the length of approximately one week. It was John's actions the week following the Baskerville case precisely, that led the detective to create the entirely new category for the doctor. 

Although it was in a carefully controlled environment, astutely monitored by the detective himself, Sherlock Holmes had not thoroughly examined _all_ of the variables prior to inducing John with the H.O.U.N.D. drug. 

To describe it accurately Sherlock, against his own better judgement, had taken John, against his uncomfortable protests into the heart of a military base, which for the doctor, who had not only used a fake ID, but aslo a fake authority to pull rank, for all intents and purposes might as well have been synonymous with the phrase 'enemy territory'. 

Sherlock then forced his assistant under the influence of a drug which had replaced the control of a seasoned war veteran, with the amplified irrationality, paranoid fear, and desperate agression of a soldier on the battlefield. 

Sherlock not only played at Sandman in stirring a lifetime of John's worst nightmares into a waking reality, but he had given John the ability to remain lucid throughout his dream of desert warfare. Cornered into a cage, afraid that even the sounds of his own panicked breath would cost him his life, John Watson hid on the verge of a breakdown. Desperately clutched to his hyperventilating chest, was Sherlock's presence, and John was so terrified of what had come after him, that he erratically pleaded to his friend to save him. Sherlock however, had other plans for him, and John's nightmares were realized in full when his friend's voice filtered through the mobile, calling the soldier to march. 

The most dangerous threat is that which rests beneath the facade of normalcy, and John H. Watson manifested that threat in every sense of the expression. Boring average John. The Infantryman on the frontline, who even when faced with the most vicious battlefield would appear to others as an unbroken leader; marching onward until every ounce of strength has escaped him. Soldier till the end. 

And therein lay the fevered sweetness of category four. It is there, the songbird finds him; in the vulnerability of his exhausted dreams, and Like the pied piper, it sings a particular madness into his mind, which beckons him to follow. 

The events following Baskerville had given Sherlock a firsthand account of exactly how far John Watson was willing to march. John had bravely thrown himself into the heart of a losing battle, keeping the H.O.U.N.D.'s effects at bay until there was nothing left of himself that he could possibly hope to give. A few ominous nights after returning from Dartmoor, Sherlock entered John's room expecting to find a category three episode, and was instead presented with a picture of John H Watson, barrel of an L9A1 Browning firmly lodged in his mouth. Safety released. 

*

Sherlock froze completely in the doorframe as he registered the scene before him. Experience of previous episodes had slightly prepared him for this, but the searing presence of a gun nestled in John's mouth was a slightly overwhelming stimulus. Abstaining from any sudden movements, he spoke softly into the room. 

"John." 

The pale moonlit features of John shook his head in protest. The sounds of soft sobs cut through the dark silence. Sherlock spoke with more force. Authoritative. Commanding. The voice a soldier could not ignore.

"John. Look at me." 

John begrudgingly tore his eyes from the floorboards to his friend. A broken sentence of muffled words spoke to Sherlock, who took advantage of this. He took note to continually use his flatmates name to keep the disoriented man focused on him. 

"John, I can't understand you. The gun is blocking your voice." 

John's trembling hands settled on the importance of having his friend receive his final words. He pulled the gun from his mouth. 

"Oh God, I'm sorry Sherlock. I'm Sorry. I'm just...Please, you have to let me do this.'" 

Sherlock carefully stepped into the room, displaying his open hands to inform John that he was unarmed. A gesture learned from his previous experience. He was able to reach an arm's length from his flatmate, before John panicked jolting to his feet pointing the gun at Sherlock. Sherlock calmly faced the barrel, eyes refusing to abandon John.

"John. It's okay."

" **No!** It's not! **It's not okay!"**

John, gun still in hand, grasped at his temples, as another wave of sobs took him. Ashamed at the display of emotion, he escaped his friend's gaze, looking away from Sherlock, who had inched closer. Sherlock continued to breathe: audibly loud, steady breaths for John's own breathing pattern to follow. When the doctor's desperate sobs began to die down, Sherlock talked to John in a monotonous, but assertive voice.

"John, Listen. You have to listen to me, it’s not real."

" **They’re memories John.** From Afganistan." 

John began shaking his head again, he couldn't know what was real and what wasn't at the current moment. Sherlock concluded that, the man with 'trust issues' needed to trust someone who could ground him to reality. Sherlock decided to utilize the risky, and potentially unsafe physical contact of a friend to convince him. Still no sudden movements, Sherlock, slowly extended his hand to rest on John's cheek, who desperately fell into the touch. 

"John. Right now, you are with me. Sherlock Holmes. In London…221B Baker Street. Do you Remember?"

Sherlock continued with a carefully executed loving caress of John's neck, ear, and scalp, purposefully resting pressurized fingertips along cardiovascular pressure points. Sherlock was John's lifeline to reality. John hesitated for a moment before he nodding hyperventilated sobs into Sherlock's hand. _Good._ Sherlock continued to assert his reality. Invading the doctors personal space, he carefully wrapped his extended hand around John's shoulders in an embrace. His other hand gently reached for the gun in John's possession; a lit fuse which hung at his side. He briefly stroked John's arm, before his fingertips found their way towards the gun's safety. His main objective was to first and foremost effectively disarm the weapon, before attempting to remove it from the soldier. 

"I promise you, John, and I mean it. You are safe."

The reality of the situation had taken effect in full, when Sherlock felt the warm weight of the metal in his hand. He felt his arm wrap around John a bit tighter, while his other trembling hand worked collect the gun from John's disoriented fingers. Sherlock's voice broke into a soft plea, an involuntary testament to the betrayal of his own emotion.

"John. I'm here. Please...Let go of the gun." 

* * *

Sherlock grimly contemplates the memory which has set fire to the walls of his mind palace, as he listens to his flatmate's movements throughout the kitchen. Distracted, he frowns again towards his fingertips, and glances up just in time to discover John, the epitome of calm this morning, gazing distantly at the mug in his hands. Passively, he watches it slip from the triggers of apathetic fingers. An action which is followed by a loud resonating crash exploding through the silence of the apartment like a gunshot. Sherlock says nothing. 

_Better the mug than John._

Neither men stir it its wake, but Sherlock raises a pointed eyebrow at the man in the kitchen. 

“Accident.” John quietly announces to the living room as he continues to stare at his work. Fragments of his favorite mug.

“Experiment.” Sherlock refutes without so much as turning his head from the doctor.

Sherlock silently rises from the sofa, gracefully pivoting his frame towards the stairs leading to John's bedroom, where he promptly retrieves the L9A1 Browning, and preventatively disarms it with a thrust of his hand. He follows the strategic plan by retrieving the collection of emergency bullets and knives which have been thoughtfully scattered about the room as protection against intruders. Afterwards, he continues to make his rounds through the apartment; all of the usual places. Removing a few household items of choice into the off-limits territory of his room. John, it would seem, has collected himself a bit in the meantime. Holding a fresh cup of tea at the kitchen table, and the morning paper, he curiously watches his flatmate, not exactly sure what he is on about, but then again he never really is. 

Sherlock however, can hear the unspoken secret's singing from the grave beneath wallpapered walls. 

It is a risk week. Because John’s madness is rather like the dull, boring thread of his jumper: a slow unraveling by a carefully pulled string, which will inevitably leave the doctor in pieces; torn apart at the seams of his own normalcy.

Category four is where the string catches, and how the unraveling begins.


End file.
